Out In The Open
by Hekate1308
Summary: Living with the consulting detective as his blogger is a game John will never grow tired of. Sequel to "Hiding In Plain Sight", AU, John is Moriarty. Major plotpoints from season 3 are used, but it's not completely canon-compliant.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This is a sequel to one of my first fanfictions, "Hiding in Plain Sight". John is Moriarty. I do not think it is necessary to read "Hiding in Plain Sight" to understand this story. **

**You should know that John is Moriarty and Sherlock is aware of it since he returned. However, he is unable to tell anyone because if he does, John will have Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade killed.  
**

**Warnings for rape and dark!John. **

**This story doesn't follow season 3 exactly, but one or two major plotpoints are used.  
**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

Human error.

In the end, it was his one mistake, the mistake that brought him to this moment.

Human error.

He thought he could trust John Watson; he thought someone would want to be his friend.

He should have known better. But John Watson saw what he wanted, and he gave it to him, and he made him what he is now.

Someone who has killed and tortured people to get back to the World's only consulting criminal. Someone who is at the disposal of said consulting criminal to do whatever he pleases.

Sometimes he wonders if John knows that the nights he's forced to endure his attentions don't matter to him. Nothing matters to him anymore.

The moment John revealed that he had been Moriarty all along was the moment Sherlock sopped caring about what happened to him.

Standing over the unconscious Shinwell Johnson, a member of his homeless network, who would be sentenced to life in prison as Colonel Sebastian Moran, another criminal John had invented, Sherlock had known what he had become and what John had been all along. Ever since then, what happened to him didn't matter anymore.

He would have taken his own life then if he hadn't been sure that John would fulfill his promise and hurt Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. John had been able to fool Mycroft; he was capable of everything.

So Sherlock resigned himself to his fate.

Six months later, he slowly walks up the stairs. John will be in the living room, typing up their latest case. This time, it wasn't arranged by the consulting criminal, and Sherlock is pathetically thankful for it. Naturally, John told him afterwards that he'd done a good job, but that he could have solved the case faster – he had started to feel bored – and Sherlock ignored him. Sherlock ignores most of what John says, these days, unless he gets concrete orders.

He spent the afternoon at St. Bart's. John won't hold it against him; he is careful not to put more pressure on the consulting detective than he can handle, and he isn't scared that Sherlock will leave or tell anyone the truth.

No one would believe him anyway. John Watson is a good man; no one doubts this fact, no one has ever doubted the consulting criminal.

Sherlock often dreams about killing him, plans the murder in his mind. He knows he won't put it into action. John will have made known to his employees what has to happen if he – or rather a certain John Watson, since it appears that no one in his organization knows his real identity – is found dead.

Not even Mycroft will be able to keep all of them safe.

All Sherlock can do is live his life beside the consulting criminal and do what he wants him to do.

Now and then he is called in on a case that he already knows the solution of because John told him, with a smile, after he came back from one of his late night excursions, who he killed and how.

Sherlock's sole comfort is that he seems to be killing less people; but he is busy building a new web, and therefore he just might not have the time.

But Sherlock has to concentrate on whatever comfort he can get. If he is to find a way out – and sometimes, he thinks he can, although he hasn't done so yet and it isn't likely – he has to keep focused. He can't despair.

John, like he predicted, sits in front of his laptop.

"Just finished" he says, and Sherlock remembers days when he read the entries and belittled John's writing skills. Disgust sweeps through him and he walks past him and into the kitchen without a word. The consulting criminal has made tea, of course. He fills a cup and only noticed how hard he is clenching it when his knuckles turn white.

When he returns to the living room, John puts away his laptop.

"I have to admit this case was refreshing. A stalking cyclist? Original. Although I would have done it differently – "

Sherlock doesn't answer. He rarely speaks to John anymore. He has to pretend when they are outside or in the company of other people; in the flat he can be silent, can let John know that he hats him, even if he suspects that the consulting criminal enjoys it.

Mycroft doesn't have any cameras in their flat, not since Sherlock came back because apparently his brother feels guilty about telling Moriarty his life's story and this is his way of apologizing, and Sherlock could scream at the irony, so no one realizes the difference in his behaviour.

At crime scenes, at St. Bart's, at Scotland Yard, he's the same he's always been, and so is John. The doctor apologizes for his remarks, comforts witnesses, is polite to everyone. Sherlock tries to concentrate on the crime scenes or go to his mind palace like he used to, but he can't. He's always aware of John.

But here, he doesn't have to answer him.

John sighs.

"Come on, you have to admit it's at least different."

There's a slight edge to his voice that tells Sherlock he won't stay in the good mood he's been in since they solved the case if he won't react, and he forces himself to answer him.

"It was an interesting case" he admits. It was; before everything, when he still had John his friend at his side and not the consulting criminal, he would have enjoyed it.

John smiles, obviously pleased that Sherlock said something. The consulting detective wonders why he never saw the emptiness in his eyes.

For now, he seems satisfied, so the consulting detective takes up his violin. Music is the only thing that brings him some degree of comfort nowadays, even if he never manages to lose himself in the melodies. But at least he doesn't think about John when he plays.

Thankfully, this time the consulting criminal doesn't request a piece. He hates playing for him as much as he enjoyed it in former times.

Just as he feels like he can breathe again, he hears steps on the stairs and recognizes them as Mycroft's.

"It's been a while" John comments at the same time.

It has indeed. Mycroft hasn't tried to force him to take a case in two months. He walks faster than usual – barely, but still noticeable – therefore it must be important.

Sherlock can't bring himself to feel enthusiastic. Neither does he feel annoyed at his brother's visit.

Mycroft enters the room without knocking.

John plays his role – politely asking the British Government if he'd like tea and, after the invitation is declined, sitting down on the sofa while Mycroft takes his chair.

Sherlock sits down as well. He wonders why his brother doesn't realize something is wrong. He always thought Mycroft knew him better than anyone.

As a child he would have given everything for the art of lying to his brother.

He sighs, but covers his weariness up with the annoyance Mycroft expects him to feel.

"What brings you here? It has been a while".

The words come out more harshly than he intended, but it doesn't matter. Mycroft sees it only as a result of having had no case in three days.

"The Secret Service has received some highly troubling information".

Sherlock waits. Mycroft is going to tell him soon enough. And he's simply too tired to pretend to be either interested or annoyed any longer.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and continues.

"There appears to be a terrorist attack planned".

"Appears to be?" Sherlock repeats. "I assume you are not in the possession of any details that might be useful?"

"If we were, I would hardly waste your precious time".

He stands up and strolls over, holding out a file which Sherlock takes automatically.

"All that we know is that there is at least one bomb involved."

"And why do you even pay attention?" John asks. "Don't you get many such threats?"

"That may be true, but the source has never given us false information before".

Sherlock will never get used to watching them talk and knowing what John is. Knowing that his brother doesn't even suspect.

Mycroft doesn't add anything and leaves them shortly afterwards.

Sherlock browses through the file listlessly.

"Come on, Sherlock, you can be a hero. Don't look so sad".

His shoulders tense and he wonders what John would do if he hit him. Probably laugh and tell him to start looking for the bomb.

"Big Brother expects you to solve this".

Sherlock glares at him, the hatred obvious in his face, but John's carefree expression doesn't change.

"Do you have anything to do with this?"

"You should know me better. A terrorist attack? That's hardly entertaining". John sounds disappointed, and Sherlock feels a strange mixture of satisfaction and fear.

He looks down at the file again and feels the hatred course through his veins. He hates John more than he has ever hated anyone, hates him more than he ever hated the Moriarty he'd come to believe existed, when he still thought Richard Brook was the consulting criminal and he was pretending to be dead and dismantling his web to get back to his friend.

Friend. He hates him, and a part of him hates himself because he hates the man who was once his blogger.

Sentiment. A chemical defect found on the losing side.

There isn't much to go on in the file; just a few snippets of information that indicate that the attack will take place soon, and that there will be a bomb, as Mycroft said –

A bomb.

Sherlock jumps up from his chair.

John follows suit.

"What?" he demands impatiently.

And Sherlock, for one moment, forgets who he's talking to.

"It's the fifth of November – " looking in the uncomprehending face of his flatmate, he sighs, "The fifth of November, John – and a bomb – "

Comprehension dawns on the doctor's face and Sherlock remembers who he is. He closes his mouth.

There is a twinkle in John's eyes.

"The Parliament? It's somewhat daring, even if I'd have wished for a better idea. I hate repetition."

Except when it comes to playing his friend, Sherlock thinks.

But right now, he has to save the country. He can feel like himself again, if only for a few short moments.

It isn't difficult to figure out where the bomb has to be if the Parliament is to be blown up, and he rushes down the stairs, John following him. It's in times like these, when he doesn't have to look at him, when all he has to do is concentrate on the case and listen to the footsteps behind him, that Sherlock is almost able to forget what happened. Almost.

They reach the underground station that has never been in use just in time to defuse the bomb – if only Sherlock knew how.

In all his cases, in all the time he has been doing experiments, he never learned how to defuse a bomb.

John stares at him.

"Well – that's unexpected. I don't know how to do it either" he admits. He looks down at the bomb. "Pity. We were having so much fun".

And in this exact moment, Sherlock remembers that there's an off switch. There has to be because terrorists don't like being blown up.

He's tempted not to do anything. He's tempted to let him and John and the Parliament get blown up. Then everything will be over.

But he can't. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson – he can't.

He has come to this conclusion and is about to reach down when he hears a quiet click and realizes John has turned the bomb off.

He looks at the consulting criminal, who is studying him, considering his reaction to the bomb, his thought process. Of course John would know as well. He only wanted to play.

"Sherlock" John says gently, so gently that his skin crawls, "It's not going to be that easy".


	2. Chapter 2

John visits him that night.

It happens at irregular intervals, and Sherlock is sure this is so he won't get used to it; it wouldn't be fun to exercise his power over the consulting detective otherwise. Not that it matters. He takes what he has to take, concentrates, goes into his mind palace, or at least tries to, and John hasn't said anything about it yet, maybe because he knows he can't take this from him if he wants to keep playing.

He can't leave, can't spend the whole time in his mind palace without being aware of the outside world as he used to, but it's enough. It has to be enough.

John leaves Sherlock's bedroom satisfied, as always. Sometimes, he wonders if he shouldn't have told Sherlock long ago who he was; this game is even more fun than the one he played before, when no one knew he was the most dangerous man this city has ever seen, but on the other hand, it was all worth it just to get here.

The best part is that Sherlock thinks he has given up when he really hasn't. The consulting detective is convinced he has resigned himself to his fate, but John sees the hatred in his eyes, and he hears his silence, the silence he maintains out of spite. If he truly gave up, he wouldn't be quiet just to show he can still annoy John, if only by refusing to answer him in their flat.

It's wonderful that he still has hope. It's one of the things ordinary people – or extraordinary people with ordinary good hearts, like Sherlock – never lose, hope. Which makes controlling them so much more fun.

John has to admit he is a little disappointed with Big Brother – he knows Sherlock so well, he would have thought he'd notice the slight change in the consulting detective – but sitting in front of him and remembering that he only got someone in his office a month ago was entertaining enough.

John forgot how much fun it was to build his web up in the first place. Of course, now it's a whole new challenge because he has to make sure no one will connect the pieces in the first place; someone like Moriarty or Moran can't appear again.

Alas poor Richard. He was a wonderful actor, and sometimes John wishes he were still alive, if only because the programmes on telly get on his nerves and he would like to watch him tell children's stories again.

He makes himself another cup of tea. It's his free night; ever since Sherlock returned, he has made sure to be at home at least three nights a week because it's something new to have a routine for once – a routine were someone else knows what he's doing, that is.

He sits down on the sofa and relieves their latest case.

Watching Sherlock stare at the bomb was interesting, utterly and completely fascinating, and John can only congratulate himself once again on his decision to play the game with the consulting detective all these years ago. Of course he wouldn't let the city blow up; Sherlock would never do that. But the thought was there, and it was wonderful that it was.

For the first time in his life, John Watson is satisfied, very satisfied indeed. And Sherlock – his flatmate should really notice something: He hasn't been bored since he came back. Neither of them have been. It's like they were born for each other.

John hums as he drinks his tea. That said, a new big case would be nice. Something to pass the time. The almost terrorist attack wasn't all that exciting. The fifth of November? Really? That was too easy even for John – and he adores simple plans, plans that confuse people like Sherlock or Mycroft who want everything to be clever.

Plus it was so unoriginal, to copy a plot that had already been tried before. And a failed one too. He doesn't understand why Mycroft needed their help to begin with. Big Brother is lazy, it's the only explanation. John doesn't appreciate laziness in enemies. It makes everything easier. And who wants easy? A victory is much more enjoyable when you have to fight for it.

Then again, the most enjoyable game of all is the one that doesn't end, like the one he's playing with Sherlock.

John sighs. He'll have to be patient and wait for a case to appear. He doesn't want to create one himself; he doesn't want to know what happened before they leave the flat. There has to be something worth their attention. He refuses to believe that the criminal classes have become so unoriginal. True, not everyone – well, no one can be as original as John, but a little effort would be nice. Sherlock would appreciate it too, he's sure. He's looked a little pale lately; he hasn't been bored, but he needs a challenge. Maybe they should look in other countries. It might be fun to expand their little enterprise.

As it turns out, they don't have to. Guardsman Bainbridge shows up and starts talking about being stalked, and John is fascinated. He has to be used to having his picture taken; if he thinks there is something wrong, there has to be. Sherlock thinks the same, judging by the concentrated expression on his face, his hands pressed to his mouth in his thinking pose.

He questions the man if he doesn't recall seeing his stalker anywhere before, and John is relieved when the answer is a decided no. He wouldn't want this to turn out a simple case of stalking, not when it holds such promise.

After the Guardsman leaves in order to get to his shift, Sherlock stays in his mind palace for quite some time, and John decides he might as well let him and read a book in the meantime.

Hours later, Sherlock jumps up and starts pacing.

"What do you think?" John eventually interrupts his thought process because he's curious. He has a few theories of his own, but he enjoys watching and hearing Sherlock's mind work.

His flatmate turns around and winces almost imperceptibly. John smiles.

It's always fun when Sherlock forgets for a second who he's talking to and acts like nothing has changed, like he was still the army doctor who blogged about their adventures and forced him to eat and sleep – although, to be fair, he still does that, because he doesn't want the game to end simply because Sherlock can't take care of himself.

The moment the consulting detective remembers is always delicious.

Sherlock pretends he didn't make the mistake, of course, and John doesn't know why he even bothers. It's not like he can't tell. But it's entertaining, so he doesn't say anything.

He waits patiently as Sherlock collects himself. The consulting detective takes a deep breath and begins, "The Guardsman doesn't have any secrets – at least none that would warrant anyone to stalk him. He likes to read and to cycle around the town, and he hasn't been in a relationship during the last six months."

"So" John muses, standing up, "you think he's imagining it?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. He's used to the attention of tourists, but this man captured his. He has to come by regularly, and none of Bainbridge's colleagues seem to have noticed him, which means he focuses on him. Why?"

"Maybe he knows something and isn't aware that he does" John suggests. He wouldn't be the first. John has often extracted information from people who didn't think they knew, people who had been standing at the back and heard something without realizing. They made good witnesses.

The consulting detective frowns. "I don't think so. It's highly unlikely that he overheard anything – he isn't important enough".

He turns around abruptly and John follows him. Naturally Sherlock wants to see what the stalker sees.

Mrs. Hudson comes out of her flat when she hears them come down, smiling happily. She's very glad her boys are back, and John once again muses that if his own mother had been like her, he wouldn't be here now.

"Do you have another case?" she asks, and John can feel Sherlock's discomfort when she moves closer to the doctor.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Seems to be a weird one" John answers. Their landlady's face lights up and he suppresses a chuckle at the thought that she must be relieved for her furniture.

"We don't know when we'll be back, Mrs. Hudson" Sherlock interrupts and leaves; John shrugs his shoulders good-naturedly and walks out the door behind him, not before having seen her shake her head at Sherlock's behaviour fondly.

"That wasn't very kind" John says as soon as they sit in the cab that, as usual, appeared as soon as Sherlock raised his hand. The consulting detective has been nicer to his friends ever since he returned, even if he's a little stressed, and John doesn't want Mrs. Hudson to get suspicious. It would be a pity to have to kill her just to prove a point. She makes excellent tea.

He makes sure that the warning seeps into his voice, and Sherlock mumbles, "I was thinking about the case" giving him to understand that Mrs. Hudson won't wonder about it. John knows that himself, but still –

What would be the fun of the game if Sherlock stopped playing?

However, he lets it slide. He'll wait and see if his flatmate's behaviour grows worse. If so, they'll have to have a talk.

They arrive soon, and Sherlock looks at Bainbridge's post from everywhere a stalker might think to place himself.

John sits down on a bench and lets him have his fun.

Sherlock will come to the right conclusion soon enough, the conclusion John came to in the cab. It's sadly simple. He was so desperate for an interesting case that he fooled himself into thinking this was one.

It's a hit. It's the only explanation. The stalker doesn't want to break in, because he would be watching all Guardsman and not only Bainbridge if that was the case. If he wanted to kidnap him – there were far easier ways to accomplish that than to stalk him at first.

It has to be a hit, although John can't say why. The stalker wants to kill Bainbridge, and the doctor hopes that at least the method will be worth their while. It still seems a lot of work to kill somebody.

Sherlock sits down next to him.

"It's a hit" he announces, frowning.

"But didn't you say he doesn't have any secrets?"

"He doesn't. That's what I don't – "

Sherlock's eyes widen and he jumps up.

"Bainbridge's shift just ended" he announces, looking at the place where the Guardsman stood only a few minutes ago.

John doesn't need him to elaborate; he stands up too and follows Sherlock into the building. Something interesting might happen today after all.

Sherlock shoos the security away and runs towards the showers, where Bainbridge is most likely to be after he's done watching tourists.

They find him, but it's almost too late. John is wondering how while he tells Sherlock what to do, and the look on the consulting detective's face when he calls him "nurse" is priceless.

Sadly, Sherlock finds out that the murder weapon was a needle pushed into the man's belt as soon as he sees his uniform, and with the description of the stalker Bainbridge is able to give after he wakes up in hospital, he is quickly found and it turns out he was just practising the murder he wanted to commit. The only outstanding aspect of this case was the method.

John would be disappointed, but then he goes out to get milk and gets jumped at from behind, and not even he can fight against that many attackers.

He wakes up in an abandoned building that appears to be on fire.

Now that's interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

He has to admit they did a good job; they chose a building with thick walls and the door won't open, no matter what he does.

The fire is coming closer, so he sits down and waits. Sherlock will be looking for him. He knows what will happen if John dies.

In the meantime, he thinks about who kidnapped him. Whatever the reason, it can only have to do with Sherlock. His cover is perfect. No one knows who he is, what he is. Therefore, it can't be anyone who's out for revenge or wants to take over his web.

They definitely are not out to kill him. If they were, they could easily have shot him from behind. No, this is proving a point, this is getting to Sherlock –

Oh. He should have realized.

Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen. John doesn't think much of the man; he has no patience for people who have all the power in the world and only use it to prove to themselves that they matter. Magnussen never does much with the information he collects – now and then he asks for money, and what a motive is that? – and he never has any proof. It's all in his brain.

He's useless both as an antagonist – he would never play games – and as a partner. John should know. When the man first showed up, he considered contacting him. After all, it can never hurt to collect information about everyone who has something to say in the city.

He ultimately decided against it because Magnussen didn't know how to have any fun. Always so serious, and slightly sadistic. True, John enjoys a good torture when he sees one, but Magnussen doesn't have a big plan, he's all about power through information, and if people weren't so ordinary and would learn that all they had to do was refuse him or not be scared of him to make him powerless, he would have nothing. People are stupid, and that's Magnussen's luck.

Apparently he wants to play with Sherlock. No, Magnussen doesn't play, the boring sod. He wants to prove a point before the consulting detective ever decides to target him. John sighs. How ordinary.

Someone is running down the corridor leading to the room he's locked into. Sherlock screams "John!"

"Here" he calls back. His flatmate breaks down the door. He looks pale and agitated, and John grins.

Sherlock Holmes has too good a heart, and it will always be his downfall. He still cares for him, even if he hates him.

It's contradictions like this that make Sherlock Holmes the interesting man he is.

They quickly leave the building and John watches the struggle in the other man's face.

Eventually, Sherlock presses out, "Are you alright?"

"Fine" John answers cheerfully. "I barely inhaled any smoke, and they didn't hit me that hard."

Sherlock nods and looks away.

"Do you have any idea –" he begins, and John is happy to reply.

"Magnussen. I'm rather sure he considers me your pressure point".

Sherlock looks at him. John is surprised. As usual, he finds the sentiment fascinating.

"You heard of Magnussen" he states.

Sherlock frowns. "Yes. A few years ago – before – "

He stops, apparently not wanting to remember the times before he met John. Not that John can blame him. Sorting through all these feelings must be complicated.

The consulting detective clears his throat. "I had just begun to work – a woman came to me, a woman whose husband wasn't to know about her past."

"Let me guess. Someone higher up the food chain".

Sherlock nods.

"Magnussen wanted money – she didn't give it to him, and since I found out that he didn't have any proof, only knew everything there was to know about her, I couldn't do anything. He told her husband and he committed suicide." He pauses. "I have seldom thought less of a man than I have of Charles Augustus Magnussen".

"Should I blush?" John asks and Sherlock shoots him a disgusted look before turning around and finding a cab.

Sherlock sits next to the man he just saved and tries to understand what he felt at the moment he got a text from an unknown number and realized John had been kidnapped. He panicked, but not only because of what would happen if the consulting criminal died.

He was scared for John, too.

Why does he still care? There's not a person in the world who has wronged him more than John Watson. There's no one who has tortured him more, whose very existence has made his life more miserable.

He couldn't even kill him if Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were safe, Sherlock realizes. He can't because John Watson was his first friend, and he hates him more than anyone else, but at the same time he means something to him, what they had means something to him.

He wants to be free of him and yet he isn't sure he could let him go.

It's all so confusing.

And now they have to deal with Magnussen. Mycroft warned him off when he wanted to act after his client's husband's suicide. This time, the situation is different.

Magnussen threatened John, which means he wanted to threat Sherlock. Which means –

He wanted to show Mycroft that he knows his pressure point.

Sherlock is aware that he can't fight a man like him, not on his own. Magnussen must be afraid of someone else.

And this someone else can only be Mycroft.

He didn't think he meant much to his brother, but apparently Magnussen disagrees.

They have to win. The country can't be at the mercy of such a man, and it will, unless they manage to fight him.

Mycroft won't help, he knows. Mycroft thinks that the best way to deal with problems like these is diplomacy, in other words not doing anything. But Magnussen has to be stopped.

At all costs.

As a matter of fact –

Sherlock looks at John out of the corner of his eye.

He might just free himself in the process.

Mycroft shows up at the flat barely an hour later. John expected him to come a little sooner – he must be getting slow – and as always, Big Brother can't admit that he's worried about Sherlock.

Naturally, he tries to order them not to investigate Magnussen.

"This is too dangerous, Sherlock. This man has – "

"I know, Mycroft. And I don't care. Someone has to stop him."

"You are just looking for a dragon to slay."

Sherlock doesn't answer and Mycroft leaves.

The consulting detective doesn't need to say that he hasn't been dissuaded from going after Magnussen.

"What do we do?" John asks. "He has everything in his head, so the only way to stop him – "

"Is to kill him" Sherlock finishes without emotions.

John feels proud. He's starting to rub off on Sherlock, it would seem.

"I'm not doing this for you" Sherlock adds when he goes to put on his coat, and the doctor chuckles.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, my dear".

For once, John doesn't know what he's thinking, Sherlock is sure. Because – this could be his way out. Mycroft wasn't trying to stop him because he was concerned for his safety; he was worried about what he would have to do if Sherlock did anything. He knows his brother – he isn't going to allow him to go to jail, but he can't let him walk around without consequences either. Most likely he'll send him away on a mission for the MI6; the consulting detective is aware that the ask the British Government if he could help them on a regular basis, and that Mycroft always declines in his name.

This time, he won't be able to decline. He has to send Sherlock away.

Probably on a suicide mission.

But –

Death has long ago stopped to be a threat to him. In fact, it stopped to be one as soon as he came back to life. Now, it sounds like freedom.

And John won't be able to do anything because Sherlock won't endanger his life or tell anyone who he truly is.

Whether he dies or not, Sherlock won't return. He will fake his death once again, if necessary. He will disappear.

John won't find him.

It will be over.

He shoots him a subtle glance.

He doesn't know, he reminds himself again. He can't know. Not even John Watson can know everything, and he can't know this, his plan of setting himself free without endangering others.

He has a reason to kill Magnussen.

It's only a matter of time before the man starts threatening others who mean something to Sherlock. Which is why the doctor didn't wonder why Sherlock was ready to kill him.

Then again, it might just be logical for him. The secrets are in Magnussen's head. Killing him is the only way to get rid of them.

Sherlock is silent as they make their way out of the town and towards Magnussen's mansion, but John has grown used to it. Maybe the consulting detective is having second thoughts about murdering someone; he is human, after all.

"Do you think Mycroft will have us followed?" he asks, "That he might try to stop us?"

He hopes it. It would be more entertaining than a simple murder.

"There would have been surveillance on us – but I told the cabbie exactly which route to take, and I am sure we lost them, at least for a while".

Long enough to get to Magnussen's mansion. Sherlock wants them to eventually figure out he left town; of course Mycroft will know immediately what they are up to. He'll come too late. He'll have to arrest Sherlock.

He only has to make sure that he's the one who kills Magnussen.

John wonders if he should be the one to shoot; they are both armed, but he's debating which course of action would promise more fun. He has made Sherlock Holmes kill and torture before – during the three years the consulting detective was dead – but he didn't see any of it and he really wishes he could. On the other hand, Magnussen is as boring and annoying a criminal as they come and it would be satisfying to pull the trigger himself.

And to do so under Mycroft Holmes' nose – nothing would happen to him. The British Government wouldn't allow it; he's only been good for Sherlock. He wouldn't want the consulting detective to lose his influence.

John smiles at the thought. And even if he should be forced to state an example, he is confident that he could find a way out of wherever they put him.

He doesn't want Sherlock to get lonely.

Breaking into the mansion is disappointingly easy. Magnussen must be so full of himself that he believes no one would try and break in.

The rest of the evening is as underwhelming as it's beginning. Magnussen tries to threaten John, and John acts scared because he has to do something to entertain himself when really, he could get rid of the extortionist in a heartbeat.

Sherlock shooting the man, though –

It's a great sight. It's a wonderful sight. John Watson sees what he's made of Sherlock Holmes, the cold-blooded killer he has created, and how the consulting detective hates what he's become but does it anyway, and it's delicious.

And then Mycroft shows up and John understands.

Sherlock almost got him. Sherlock almost beat him. Sherlock almost free himself.

That's the most interesting thing that's happened in months, ever since Sherlock came back.

If only John could show how happy he was. Just as he was getting bored with the cases –

But Sherlock won't get away. He's a bit disappointed that the consulting detective didn't expect him to have a plan for situations like this.

Sherlock acts devastated at the airport, right before he goes on his suicide mission, and John does his best to appear oblivious while he enjoys the relief in the man's eyes. Not for long. Sherlock hasn't escaped him yet.

The consulting detective lets himself sink into his seat and breathes a sigh of relief. He's done it. He's free. He feels regret (not because of John, no, not because of him, because of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and London) to leave, but all in all, he feels better than he has in months. Years, if he includes his time being dead.

He's free.

His phone rings.

As soon as the plane takes off, John pushes a button on his phone.

He always knew that the footage of Richie would come in handy.

The film of him asking "Miss me?" is on every screen in Britain, and Mycroft enters his limousine to call Sherlock back.

John smiles.

The game is far from over.


End file.
